I drove way off road into the Indian Reservation north of Flagstaff last night to take pictures of weird rocks under the stars. I thought it was just me, some bats, and my dog. But when a bullet whistled past me and hit the rocks I was photographing, I knew somebody didn't like me being there. I grabbed my dog, froze, panicked for two minutes, decided that yes I did just hear a bullet, no that wasn't my imagination, grabbed my gear, threw it in to the car, and got the hell out of there.
Really, why? It was too close to be funny. I was in the middle of nowhere, in the desert, not bothering anyone.
My friend said that it was probably an evil skinwalker. I would prefer gun crazy psycho over a skinwalker, thank you very much!
Here's a shot from before my desert debacle.